


Show Me a Chrysanthemum Lover

by lirin



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse, The Phil Silvers Show
Genre: Chrysanthemums are very dangerous..., Crossover, Gen, Humor, chrysanthemums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rupert Psmith once had to wear a chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. Corporal Basil Egan once had to fight chrysanthemum-lovers in the name of America and his maiden aunt. They are about to encounter one another—and a deceptively innocent pink chrysanthemum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me a Chrysanthemum Lover

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by and references my two favorite chrysanthemum jokes (very minor spoilers for Bilko & Psmith follow):
> 
> In "The Boxer", Episode 6 of Season 1 of _The Phil Silvers Show_ , Sergeant Bilko, due to a complicated sequence of events (as is usual for him), needs to convince Corporal Egan that he hates chrysanthemums (so that he'll insult chrysanthemums and pick a fight with the reluctant boxer in Bilko's platoon). So he spins Egan a tale about "Chrysanthemum Fever," scourge of women and children and especially old maiden aunts.
> 
> In chapter 6 of _Leave It to Psmith_ , Freddie Threepwood makes a mysterious assignation with Psmith. So that he will recognize Psmith, he wants him to wear a carnation in his buttonhole, but not being horticulturally inclined, he accidentally requests that poor Psmith wear a (large and unprepossessing) chrysanthemum instead.

When the war ended, Corporal Basil Egan moved back in with his Aunt Mildred in Los Angeles. She seemed to be doing well for an elderly lady, but he was concerned about her health and made sure to keep an eye on her. Ever since that day long ago when Sergeant Bilko had told him of the scourge of Chrysanthemum Fever, Egan had been worried that it would strike Aunt Mildred. The petals! The wilting! It sounded horrible!

***

Now that the war was over, the Jackson and Psmith families were celebrating by travelling to Los Angeles. Psmith had a lawyer friend there whom he wanted to see, while the Jacksons were at loose ends now that harvest time was over at their farm, so it was a perfect time for a vacation.

***

Just as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings can cause a storm, so these small choices of location led to all of the aforementioned individuals—the Egans, the Psmiths, and the Jacksons—wandering through a Los Angeles flower market on the same day. In the same hour, even.

“Hey, look, it’s a chrysanthemum,” said Mike. “D’you remember that story you told me about how you walked all around London with a chrysanthemum in your buttonhole?”

“Only too painfully,” replied Psmith. He gazed at the chrysanthemum with a pained expression. “And to think that my erstwhile interlocutor of the Piccadilly Palace Hotel never intended for me to wear a chrysanthemum at all.”

“Well I do,” said Mike. “I dare you to wear a chrysanthemum in your buttonhole all day today.”

Psmith adjusted his eye-glass and stared at him. “Well, in recognition of the ‘good old days’ we shared together,” he finally said, “I suppose I could wear a chrysanthemum for a few hours.” He turned to the keeper of the booth. “My good sir, I would like to buy your finest chrysanthemum.”

***

As Basil Egan and his aunt meandered around a corner at the flower market, Aunt Mildred coughed. “Ooh, I’ve got a tickle,” she said. “Could you find me some water, Basil?”

At that moment, Egan happened to look to his left, and there it was—a pink chrysanthemum. As clear as day, he seemed to hear Sergeant Bilko say “Their ears turn to petals. You gotta stand them in water so they don't wilt!” It was obvious why Aunt Mildred suddenly found herself in desperate need of water. Who was the evil scoundrel who dared to wear a chrysanthemum on his chest when weak defenseless women’s lives were at stake? Well, whoever he was, Egan would soon deal with him. 

Psmith was just indicating a particularly beautiful and delicate rose, his lips half-parted to make some pithy remark, when a stranger’s cry of “Hey you, chrysanthemum-lover! Who do you think you are!” was his only warning of what was about to commence. This cry was followed nigh-on immediately by 6 feet of furious ex-soldier, fists swinging wildly. Fortunately, Psmith was up for any situation. Without pausing to request whys or wherefores, he ducked to the right, dodged to the left, then followed up with a hard right to the stranger’s solar plexus.

For some reason, Psmith’s response did not seem to allay the stranger’s anger. “You careless woman-hating chrysanthemum-lover!” he roared. “I’ll make you eat it!” He dove for Psmith—who was definitely not retreating but may have backed up a few steps to gain a tactically advantageous position—and both flew through the side of the flower-stall, locked in an acrimonious clinch.

“Hey!” the flower-stall owner yelled, not amused by their redecoration of his property. “Hey!” His cries not gaining their attention, he seized a broom and ran after the brawling disputants, who were already several flower-stalls away. Neither seemed to have the upper hand. Egan may have had righteous fury on his side, but Psmith was making an impressive showing for someone who was still somewhat unclear as to why he was being attacked. Half of his chrysanthemum still clung to his buttonhole, having lost most of its outer petals but still retaining its innate chrysanthemum-ness.

As Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Psmith, and their assorted offspring stood near the remains of the abandoned flower-stall, the fracas exeunted into the distance. It was pursued not by a bear, but by just about everyone else—the broom-wielding flower-stall owner, the similarly-armed staff of several nearby flower-stalls that had been damaged to lesser degrees, assorted passersby who found this event far more interesting than staring at flowers, and Mike Jackson, who suspected that he might somehow have had something to do with this altercation (having heard the word “chrysanthemum” interspersed among the man’s wild cries), and wished to assist Psmith if possible.

“Excuse me,” an elderly lady murmured to Phyllis Jackson. “Have you seen my nephew? I went to find some water and now he seems to have wandered off.” She sighed, looking around at the carnage. “Whatever has happened here? How could someone damage all these wonderful flowers? Oh, here’s one that’s still intact.” She held it up so the bystanders could see it clearly. “Oh, look, it’s a chrysanthemum! I love chrysanthemums, they’re my favorite flower!”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this story for a while, but last night after I rewatched "The Boxer" (there's nothing like frantic Christmas knitting for catching up on TV shows), it finally all came together!


End file.
